By Babylon's Streams
by Sonnenkoenigen
Summary: Road, after she was hit by Apocryphos.


Never before has she spent so much time sleeping, and it's the worst possible time for her to be asleep. She wants to wake up, but every time she tries, it hurts too much, so she goes back into the vast caverns of Noah's dreams, the meanderings of an ancient mind consumed by grief.

She knows the truth about this world, better than anyone except perhaps Adam himself, and he was driven mad by it. She probably was, too, but how could anyone know all of it and remain sane? It wasn't meant to be known. There weren't supposed to be any survivors. Those who followed were supposed to live on in innocence, building their lives on a foundation of rotting bones.

She has never been hit so hard before. Apocryphos is much stronger than anyone anticipated, but its presence in the world confirms what the Earl suspected: the Heart is out, and it's acting. All they have to do is find it before it finds The Fourteenth.

They will. They have to.

She dreams of the moans of the dying, the weeping of refugees, the keening of widows and orphans. Their despair lives on in her, crying out for retribution, and she cannot ignore it. Their cause is her own, it's the reason she and the others are reborn, to avenge the fallen and bring the world back to what it was.

Once upon a time, there were two brothers, and one was envious of the favor their father showed the other. When the chance came, the jealous brother took up a weapon and killed the favored son.

_Weapons exist so that humans can kill humans. _

She said that to Allen once. It made him angry, but he still doesn't realize what the Demons really are. He doesn't know what his weapon is for. He doesn't understand what it means to be an Exorcist.

She wonders what he will do when he finds out.

They hung their lyres on the branches of the poplars, defying their enemies who demanded that they sing as they died, hymns of praise to the God that destroyed them. They would not do it. They would not sing at their own funerals and they have not sung since, their tongues frozen in their mouths.

There were no headstones or crypts. The only memorial to the dead is Noah's memory, of the rush and light of cities, the babble of the marketplace, the whispers of lovers, the shouts of rivals, the bickering of children, the wails of infants. In her dreams, she weeps from grief. To have survived means to have suffered intolerable loss, and yes Noah's memory has driven her mad. To see everything destroyed only to be replaced by something so weak and dull and fragile, it would drive anyone mad.

They survived, but only in the genes of the weaker race that followed, and only a few of them, Adam and the twelve who swore him fealty. They are sacrificial lambs, but if he can succeed, it will be worth it. What price can be paid for the dead except death? An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life. There is no other weregild for genocide.

Except now there is a disciple who wasn't supposed to exist.

She has to wake up. She has to find Allen. Only the Earl understands the danger he's in, but the Earl also understands the danger he poses. His is a terrible power, one that can make the difference between life and death, and right now, he is determined to kill.

Once upon a time, there were two brothers. One of them destroyed himself for his brother's sake, and it has changed everything.

Those who escaped swore that they will not rest until they have razed this world to its foundations. They will rebuild it as it was in its glory so they can sing again, songs that are never forgotten as long as Noah's memory can be re-awoken. Even the ones who are newly born can remember those songs, and yearn for a day when they can be sung in celebration.

She has to wake up.

She has to find Allen.

She has to check on Tyki and make sure he's all right.

She has to take care of Adam, who is becoming fragile.

She has to find Nea before the Heart does.

She has to find the Heart and destroy it.

No. She has to rest until she recovers, if she can. She might never be quite whole again, but Innocence is the cruelest weapon of all.

She turns in her sleep, her hand resting on the empty pillow beside her, and she dreams.

* * *

_Happy who pays you back in kind, for what you did to us._

_Happy who seizes and smashes your infants against the rock. _

_-_ Psalm 137, translation by Robert Alter


End file.
